“There,” says he. “Look at that.”
“Fiddlesticks,” says Mr. Browning. “Ninety yachts out of a hundred come in here for anchorage the first night out of New York.”
Mr. Topper grabbed the glasses and stared at the black yacht. “Her name’s Porpoise,” he said.
“See anybody you know?”
Mr. Topper shook his head. “Everybody’s below except a man in dungarees. Part of the crew. Smoke’s coming out of the funnel. Galley stovepipe must come up there. Probably all getting ready for dinner.”
“Then,” said Mr. Browning with a chuckle, “whether they’re friendly or hostile, we won’t have to worry for an hour.” And just then Rameses III poked his head above deck and stood there mumbling.
“Food’s on the table. Gittin’ cold. Work myself to the bone gittin’ hot grub for folks and they never do nothin’ but dally and loiter till it’s colder’n dead fish. Dunno whatever I took up with bein’ a cook fer. Git no thanks. Nothin’ but kicks and dishwashin’. Nothin’ to me whether folks eats hot food or not. Sp’ile their stummicks if they want to. I do my duty, and if they hain’t willin’ to profit by it, why, ’tain’t no skin off’n my neck.”
We filed down and took our seats, and for a while nobody said a word, because we were hungry and the things Rameses III had cooked were mighty good. Then Mr. Browning says, “Got to row up to the village to send a telegram. Better come along, Topper.... Why don’t you boys wait around a while and go for a swim before you turn in?”
“Sounds good,” says Catty.
So, when dinner was over, Mr. Topper and Mr. Browning piled into the dinghy and Naboth went along to run the engine, and Catty and I were left alone on the Albatross with Rameses III and Tom, the engineer. Tom was one of the silent kind. All the time we spent on that boat I never heard him say a word. All he ever did was to shake his head for yes or waggle it for no.